


Clover

by saccharineSylph



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Afterlife, Ancestors as Parents, Dreambubbles, Humanstuck, Implied Non-Con, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Un-named city
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:20:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saccharineSylph/pseuds/saccharineSylph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the dreams of second chances, how in death would you choose to live?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The air beneath you was cool and filmy. You could feel the grimy darkness sticking to your skin like spilt oil, wrapping you safely in its damning cocoon.

The voices of thousands of souls whispered into the frill of your ears, into the crooks of your gills. _Will you take your salvation? Will you pledge your Heart to the Emptiness and take your Crown?_

_What will you do?_

Into the depths you screamed your answer.


	2. Sunshine

You're Feferi Peixes, and you are mentally debating the virtues of getting out of bed.

Mmmmn. Another comfortable night's sleep! Dreamless as usual. It's always a bit difficult for you to leave your cozy nest. If you can call it a bed now, really-- its more like a pile of squashy pillows and plush toys of all shapes and sizes, but there's sheets and a mattress under there somewhere. You sneak one foot out to wiggle in the cold autumn morning and decidedly jam it back under the sanctuary of covers. Nope. 

Work's not for a while, you can spend a few more moments languidly stretched under the comforter. Your hair's everywhere, you forgot to braid it back before you went to bed last night. For a while it's just wonderful to lie in the warmth and let the solidity of the world click into place. The tap of ginkgo branches on your window, the sound of distant songbirds, far from their countryside home. There's a car honk every now and then, or joggers' gossip bleeding through the window. You creak your eyes open to watch the dustmotes swirl in the shafted daylight. You really should clean the glass.

The clock radio finally clicks on, loud and obtrusive, far too boisterous for this hour. After the jockey's strained jovial greetings, the newscast began droning something about city traffic and delays on the subway, and the bizarre series of earthquakes that had been disturbing the city lately. By then you decide you should at least get upright.

Thankfully for you, your work shift did not start until noon. Many years of attempting to keep a normal schedule have taught you that you function better at evening and night.

Still, one always should be dressed to greet the world! It's your Nana Lucy's words, prickling in the back of your mind like an old song remembered only in bits and parts.

A good roll through your closet into piles of tactile fabrics would generally do the trick. You'd long given up on coordinating properly. The mishmash of strange clothes sort of works for you. Today it's a cowl-neck sweater and a high-waisted twirly skirt. At least five minutes are spent indulging yourself in spinning in circles in front of your floor-length mirror to watch the gores of the fabric twist and unwind.

No signs of life from next-door.

Time to change that! You toe your way into ridiculous, fluffy slippers and bounce off the edge of the vanity seat. No need to right the bedding. It'll only get messed up tonight anyway. 

On the way you bid good morning to the terrarium full of fuzzy tarantulas and the aquarium full of tropical fish, dropping crickets in one tank and pellets into the other, respectively. One dogged night you had been tired enough to mix the two up- the crickets certainly didn't enjoy drowning, and the spiders were unamused with the dried flakes.

You elbow your roommate's door open and creep carefully along the ancient carpet, avoiding discarded magic eight-balls, Rubix cubes and balls of socks. The lump on the bed doesn't stir when you climb over it, settling like a raincloud over the shape.  You drape a leg and arm across it, poking the mass of dark auburn. 

"Vriskaaa," you croon, "Wake up, sunshine girl."

The sleeper groans and pushes you away with both hands, nails painted in tacky, chipped blue polish. You really ought to hold her down again and redo it.

"Peixes, I swear to god… I'm not even working."

"No, which is sort of the problem," you reply pointedly, tugging the quilts away from Vriska Serket's grumpy face.

She turns on her back, letting you lie across her chest, the covers sandwiched between you. You've curtained her in your hair like a wraith, and Vriska puts on the best irritated expression she could manage, squinting bleary eyes and skewing her lips into a twisted pucker. You know she can't hold it. You try and match her, puffing your cheeks out and crossing your eyes.

Success! Vriska relents, cracking a lopsided smile and hunching her body upright, sending you tumbling to the covers in a mess of giggles. You know Vriska sets at least eight alarms to 'wake up early, honest,' but you also know you're her best alarm clock.

"C'mon grumpy. I can make pancakes?"

If there's any surefire way to get Vriska on her feet it's sweets covered in syrup.

"Fuck yessssssss," she hisses, slithering her way out of bed, dragging blankets along with her.

She jams her phone in her bra; You're sort of amazed it manages to stay there considering what little she's got to work with, but Vriska's always had luck on her side. It's a bit too early to expect her to wear real clothes so you'll just tolerate the way-too-big Guns n' Roses shirt and underpants. Sometimes you wonder if she actually knows what lingerie is? But she's just such a desperately charming mess you shrug it away.

You've had her as your roommate for almost two years now, and you've both made this your home. Naturally you made it pretty, though Vriska insisted on a few terribly cheesy Warcraft figures here and there, and horrible things she's found on Etsy. You make her turn the vagina pillows around when guests come.

You heft a window open; the fan on the oven broke about a year ago. Vriska swore up and down it wasn't her, but from time to time you see her fiddling with it. Whatever, the window opens. For a brownstone apartment in the historic district, it's nice, so long as you lock the doors, windows, kept the fire escape up. Well, it's worth the price. Your bedroom's right next to hers, with a bathroom the size of a small closet between. It's mostly yours. You love the kitchen though, open and bleeding into the TV lounge, filled with squashy pillows and a futon. You'd agreed on a futon by being equal halves too stingy and too earth-loving to buy one. Also you found this one ditched somewhere, so. 

"Do you want any eggs?"

"I want anything available in the fridge right now. God…" Vriska pulls a spare plush toy shaped like an octopus over her face and lets it lie there, "What time is it?" 

"A bit past nine," you say, cracking an egg expertly on the edge of the frying pan; it's better than the first time, you're still not sure how it ended up on the ceiling.

Vriska's bra begins to vibrate with some awful song, and she lets it go just a minute to spite you before fishing it out. 

"Hey pumpkin pants!" She drawls to her phone.

"Hi John!" You call over your griddle. 

A punch of speaker phone and you can hear him respond back.

"Hi, Feferi! So Vriska, did you get past that guy in League of Whatsit?"

"League of Legends?" Vriska grumbles, fishing through the catch-all bowl that sat on the coffee table and finding an ever-present package of gum, "Nah, it was lame."

She switches it off-speaker, sandwiching the phone between her ear and shoulder as she wrestles with the packaging.

"Are you doing Nepeta's thingy tonight? Yeah, I mean, it can't be worse than last time, right? It was like the saddest game of Apples to Apples ever and no one even got drunk. We really should fix that."

She fiddles with her phone, scrolling through her calendar. She's taller than you by at least a head, not that that matters since you're well-aware you're a shrimp.  You find you envy her hair, rebellious and chestnut against her dark skin. Though you'll be damned if she ever remembers to brush it without your constant reminding.

Despite your best efforts, Vriska perpetually has gum in her mouth which she gnaws and tore at with her teeth. Vriska's all angles, her body concave and sharp, even though she eats whenever she manages to get food. Precious few earned her affection. Namely, her beloved tarantulas, you(you hope), and her darling boyfriend.

"For real?" She mumbles, crossing her legs the other way, "You're too soft, Egbert. Fineeeeeeee. Okay, have a good day at work pushing papers. Uhuh. Pregame at least a little. See you at eight? Game on."

Vriska hangs up and tosses her phone in the vague direction of the chair. Then her attention turns to you.

Nooooo.

"C'mon, Feferi! Social butterfly, I know you can't resist."

"Look, I love Nepeta! But the girl's not… I've got responsibilities! I don't know, my shift ends sort of late tonight. And makeup and drinking and ugh!"

"Peeeeeeeeixes, you work too hard as it is, The aquarium can wait. It will not explode. Probably." A pop of gum, "You should come. Nepeta even managed to rope Vantas into it, you should too. Don't make me and John end up going in on our lonesome. You know we are not responsible for ourselves. Especially at parties. Well, ever. But parties definitely. Please? You can even have that bitch Megido come… do your makeup or whatever."

When Vriska turns her enormous blue eyes up at you with well-trained pity, you know better than to fight her.

"Fine," you sigh, dropping a full plate of scrambled eggs before Vriska, "But try not to drink too much this time. I don't want to hold your hair back for an hour."

 

* * *

 

"Fuck no."

"Dammit, will you attempt to be social for once in your life?"

"Do you even realize how fucking hypocritical that th-ounds coming from you?"

You admire Karkat for his gumption, but you're pretty sure prying you from your laptop is akin to scraping barnacles from the side of a ship. Karkat hooks his short arms under your shoulders and yanks with all his pint-size strength.

 _Bless this mess_ , you think.

"Shut up, come on, man. Hear me out. It’s one party, not fucking Burning Man."

"You know it's really, really hard to take you th-eriously when you're wearing th-crubth with tiny little pawprint-th on them.”

"Oh, fuck you, Sollux, you've murdered every 's' in that sentence. They're bloody, dripping. Their wives are crying. They demand justice. The news crews are censoring it."

Ugh, getting you right in the gut with pointing out your stupid tongue and your stupid teeth that get in the way. Then again, this is not an unusual tussle for you. It's not hard to shake him off.

It's thanks to Karkat that you even remember to eat at all. Which you suppose you should be grateful for. You're lucky to work from home, in spite of forgetting to eat, sleep, or function like a rational human being. He lives in the same flat complex, but you're betting Karkat would probably have driven across the city if it meant keeping his best friend in the world safe from himself. Sometimes you wonder if you deserve him. Sometimes you're sick of it. But Karkat has a spare key. You'd long given up on trying to keep him out. Sometimes his invasions of whirling fury are even welcome.

Karkat is currently perched on your slim, modern desk, which you singlehandedly dragged home from IKEA on the subway. Still proud of that. At least Karkat doesn't weigh much. Anything heavier than him would probably send the whole thing cascading to the floor in a heap of empty Red Bull can pyramids and wads of tissues from your stubborn, perpetual cold. As hilarious as that'd be, you don't exactly want to deal with hospital trips involving desk collapse injuries with a screeching Karkat in tow.

He has dark skin and rich dark hair. His eyes are fucking huge, which has the unfortunate side effect of prompting people to pinch his cheeks ad nauseam. This is just entertaining to you, of course.

"Yes, because I was previously unaware of my social interaction quota. What a revelation! Now please, for the love of all of god's green earth and the fuzzy animals your girlfriend loves so much, let me code. This company's been riding my ass."

"Bullshit. I know you crank out those jobs in less than an hour. Ickle baby stuff. You said it felt like your client ought to be in diapers. What are you even working on?"

"The matrix. Now get the fuck off. I have shit to do."

You swat his hands away and return to your custom glowing keyboard--you'd rigged the laptop’s keyboard to be blue on one side and red on the other. No reason but funsies.

Karkat, of course, is not taking no for an answer. He swats your Alienware closed (be fucking careful goddammit) and promptly sits his ass right on it, putting both feet to your chest like a kangaroo.

"Get your dirty sneakers off my shirt!" You yank at his ankles.

"You have not left your fucking apartment in at least two weeks! Come on, shithead. Don't pull this coding-binge-shit that you did in high school, I do NOT have the goddamn stamina. "

"Shut the fuck up, you're a liar."

Karkat deflates as if he's been punctured by a pin. God, fuck…You hate it when Karkat looks up at you with those big, chocolate eyes you've known since he was barely knee-high. It's like dropkicking a puppy over a goalpost. Dammit. Backpedal, backpedal.

You smoosh his face against one fist and manhandle your foolish words into a joke. Anything to make him angry rather than wounded.

"It's been two and a half weeks."

The pitiful expression contorts into pure, unadulterated rage. At least you know how to deal with that face.

"I SWEAR to god, if you don't leave the apartment tonight I will smash your fucking head in!"

"Why the hell do you fucking care?" you shout, raking both hands through your hair. "Just go with your girlfriend and get laid!"

"Because, damn you, I want you to be happy!" Karkat's scream near rattles a can of pencils over.

It's quiet now except for aggravated pants and growls. Karkat reaches out and lightly bumps the back of his fingers to your cheek, knocking your sunglasses aside. His knuckles are rough. You know when he was younger he used to punch walls; it's all scar tissue.

"Are we still friends?" he murmurs, low and near lost in the room.

"…Why fucking not, no one else will put up with your shit. Now, coffee?"

"Chocolate milk." You should have known better.

You lean back in the chair, letting Karkat's feet slide to your knees, crane yourself upright. Karkat uncoils from his seat atop the laptop, slithering to the floor. You're amused at how much his stumpy little legs dangle. It definitely is hard to take him entirely seriously in his nurse's uniform. He looks far more like a kid in pajamas than an RN. You suppose you don't look much better, in some chewed-up jeans you've had since forever and t-shirts that are probably more hole than shirt.

Long ago you'd completely given up on tidying the place for him. Game boxes, Netflix wrappers, controllers and stacks of mail are everywhere. You're not a hoarder, not really. You just prefer a comfortable state of disarray. Especially given the ultra-modern loft. It's so different from the home you grew up in, settled in farmlands, surrounded by honeycombs.

At least you did dishes at some point this week. You find a mug that's relatively clean and slide it to Karkat. He knows where the syrup and milk are. You're not too fond of chocolate yourself, but you keep it around for him. And the ladies.

… _What ladies?_

Easier to needle someone else. You slosh coffee into a mug for yourself and lean against the counter, grinning at him, this tiny shape stirring his chocolate milk.

"Nepeta's dragging you there, isn't she?"

"Don't make me fucking go alone, man. I am fucking begging you. Do you understand how shitty this will be? After last time's lame attempts I know Vriska's gonna stage an uprising. I'm talking booze every-fucking-where which means faces will be practically glued to each other and tongues will be so far down throats that they might as well do tonsillectomies while they're at it. Egbert and his fucking devilbitch girlfriend will be messing with everyone and Gamzee will be stoned out of his mind and goddammit,

Sollux, don't make me fucking go alone."

He's hilarious when he babbles like this. This is why you put up with him, warts and all, this sincere rambling. "Fine. But I am not going to do backflips to entertain you."

That gets a toothy, white smile, and he rams those battered knuckles to your skinny ones.

Despite your own ambivalence, you slouch off of the counter. Your posture is fucking terrible--you have to stand at a hunch to accommodate for your height, which has the charming habit of making you look like some sort of lollopping moose. Or, considering your penchant for wearing yellow, a very awkward giraffe. The silence is comfortable now as Karkat scurries to your apartment door ahead of you like the world's cutest fucking hermit crab, peering back to be sure you're following.

"What is your fucking obsession with me being happy, anyway?" you ask, shoving your hands deep in your pockets to take comfort in feeling the lint that had gathered there. "It shouldn't be your problem."

He pauses, hand on the door. Something soft, guilty passes over his features, but it's so natural it just seems like another freckle, another birthmark.

"It's more of my fucking problem than you know. Now hurry your ass up. We're going to IHOP, loser."

 


	3. Window

Another goddamn hostel, another bed and another street. Fuck these guys, they couldn't understand talent if it knocked them square in the face. At least you dress well for a vagrant.  Well, a near-vagrant.

The night in the hostel has left you with a nasty crook in your back, but you do your best to walk in a way to loosen the muscles. It’s pretty fetching, if you do say yourself. A bit like a cross between a slink and a slouch. Sexy. 

Most of what you own is on your back in a bag that probably cost twice as much as the contents. To give yourself something to fiddle with you dig in your pocket for your slick smart phone. You wonder if it’s completely obvious that it’s not bought with your own money. The name "Dad" flickers by your contacts, but no fucking way. Fuck that, you can do this on your own.

Better to switch your phone to mirror mode, fix your hair. It’s looking particularly ginger today. The time you’ve spent out in the sun has brought the pink out in your skin, and damn it all, darkening your freckles that coat every inch of you. You look like a fuckin’ carrot-topped Dalmatian, with a funny voice to match.

You swear to god, if anyone asks you when you got off the boat, you will put them on it. In a box.

For now, it’s best to seek work again. No one appreciates your worth here, it’s ridiculous. You still can’t imagine why sailing into stores and offices offering your services hasn’t flown yet. Dad always told you it showed ‘prerogative’ and ‘confidence,’ well, bullshit. The money in your pocket was enough to eat and get your next hostel stay.

But _nnn_ , those are a really nice pair of rings in that boutique window.

You tell yourself it’s a job opportunity and a shopping trip. 

Sure, there’s no ‘hiring’ sign in the winow. But they haven’t met you yet.

Grin at em’ first. Real winnin’ smile, you remember your uncle Cronus telling you when you were small. It didn’t help that a shark-like row of teeth ran in the family. 

“Hullo,” you manage to stammer out.

Well, that went well. The shopgirl lifts her eyes in feigned interest, far more invested in her text messages than you. She’s cute enough, you can flirt. Sort of.

The rings were a matching set, probably meant for each hand. You stack them on your fingers, atop the bands you already had. What, you had a thing for rings. Everyone’s got a statement style they're attached to.

“How-w much?”

Shit, you tripped over your damn ‘w’s again.  The smile the woman gives you when she raises her head isn’t kind.

“Price is on the tag, hon. And where are you from?”

“Ireland,” you mumble, checking the tag.

Damn. Well you can eat light for lunch. Organic apple or somethin’ instead of a whole wrap. Less trash, after all. Fuckin’ hate trash.

You fumble for the money, spilling out colorful Euro coins and slips on the counter to find the dull green bills. She takes the American dollars from you, making a bit of a show in counting out the change.

“And how long have you been here, sweetheart?”

“Uh, three years? You w-wouldn’t happen to be looking for someone as fine as myself to w-w-work w-with you, huh?”

Now she just laughs at you, “You might want to get your visa sorted out first. And maybe come up with a better excuse than that?”

Well, fuck her. In the mirror behind the cash register you can see the pink has gone all the way across your nose, your cheeks, climbing up your ears, fogging your glasses. You snatch your change and storm away, rings and tags still on your fingers.

 At lunch you’re too pissed to eat anyway.

 

* * *

 

“Hail the conquering hero,” she cheers to you from the sofa when you arrive home.

“Hi, Vriska. Did you hold the fort down?” You sigh, sagging all of the groceries off your arms to the kitchen countertop. “Help me with these?”

“Ooo, did you get stuff for me? Like, non-forest-floor variety?”

“Oh, shush, it’s good for you.” You relent, offering her a jar of Nutella. You still don’t see the appeal whatsoever, but Vriska snort-laughs, capturing it in her hands. The groceries would never get put away if you didn’t snatch it back from her again. Groceries first. There’s an awful lot of groaning and grumping, but Vriska’s arms are longer and can reach the top shelves.

“John’ll be here at 8. How were the brats today?”

“They were fine! One tried to puke in the stingray petting tank and another banged on the glass when I was feeding the nurse sharks, but they were fine.”

“That sure as hell doesn’t sound fine to me?” Vriska sneers, shoving meat in the freezer.

“Oh, come on, you just hate kids—”

It hits you all at once—a throb, a sharp, vicious pain at the base of your breastbone. You clutch at the edge of the counter, sweat beading instantaneously at your brow to relieve the stress. You can kind of make a choked little squeak. To Vriska it’s a painfully familiar sound. She nearly drops a bag of cashews, whispers shit through her teeth.

Her scrawny arms lash about your chest, press your back to her chest.

“Stay still,” she orders you. “It’ll go quickly if you don’t move.”

The pain blossoms, like your insides will rot out, stealing your breath, sucking the life right out of your mouth. Your legs wobble, but Vriska supports you, grasping you close.

And, as soon as it came, it’s gone. You steady yourself,  lay your hands on Vriska’s.

“Is it gone?” she asks you, drawing away slowly.

“I think…Wow, it’s been a while since I’ve had one, huh?”

“I’ve not had one either for a while.”

It bonded you both; finding strong, virile Vriska sprawled on the bathroom, soaked in her own sweat, clutching at her chest. Sometimes it lasted for a day. Sometimes it was only a moment of disorientation and pain. You suspect John had them, too, these strange spells of pain.

You don’t speak of it, but Vriska bullies you into lying on the sofa with your feet up, making much presentation over the whole affair.

“Anything else for the Lady, Princess?”

“Away, away,” you crow, waving a hand.

She finishes the grocery organization without any honest complaints.

 

* * *

 

“Why do I just have the worst sinking feeling about this ever?”

“Because you have sinking feelings about fucking everything. Your brain is a perpetual Titanic. Your ears are filled with Closer, My God To Thee at any given point in your day.”

“Shut up,” you groan, elbowing Karkat away from the mirror. “Just so you know, if I manage to get laid tonight I’m still not forgiving you.”

“Manage, he says, like he didn’t somehow magically have girls lining up outside our dorm room,” Karkat grumbles, attempting to tame his massive fluff of whatsit he calls his hair.

Experience lets you load your hands with static, wave them over his head like a plasma globe. His hard work is undone, puffing out at all angles.

“You shit!” he screeches, the unhappiest housecat you’ve ever met.

Still, it’s nice to see him out of Hello Kitty scrubs and in normal clothing, not that it makes him look like any less of a grumpy ten-year-old. Not that you look any better. Whatever. You are pretty determined to plaster yourself up against the back wall and steel yourself until it’s over.

“We need to pick up juice,” he announces after a quick survey of his phone. “By which she means booze probably.”

“Shit, Nep’s stepping it up.”

You still have a jar of nice-smelling gunk that does good stuff to your hair. Makes it nice to touch or something? Hell if you know. Aradia said she used it on dead people hair so if people cried into it at least it wouldn’t feel like dead people hair. Works for you, you guess. How even did you end up with these people?

“To quote her, she says, ‘Get the stuff.’ And a bunch of weird fucking smileys.”

“That sounds more like a drug deal.”

“I don’t fucking know, man, it’s Nepeta.”

His voice is so, exasperatedly fond. Your heart churns with something like jealousy. You flip the back of his hair up, hands still slick with mousse. He’s not even got the energy to push you away, locking one arm in yours like two veterans off to war.

“Gird your balls, man. It’s gonna be a long night.”

“What’d I do without you, dude?”

“Don’t care.”

“Fuck you.”

At least you know Karkat has your back.


	4. Invitation

You know she’s here when there’s a tremendous thump against your door, much like a dead body being dropped against it. It scares the skin off Vriska every time, and she leaps at least a foot in the air. You’re pretty sure that’s your guest’s intention. Next comes skittery little scratches.

“Hello!” The voice comes in through the mail slot. “Housekeeping!”

“Don’t want any,” Vriska says, prodding a fork through the narrow mail flap.

“Don’t stab the maid!”

“Oh, Vriska, come on, let her in. Somebody’s gotta do my makeup, hell if I know how.”

No sooner does Vriska crack the door open than Aradia sails inside, a whirl of red petticoats and sneakers. She’s stuck a skull bow in her hair, nestled in her victory rolls, and you wonder what other creepy crawlies have gotten into her locks at work. Best not to ask. She drops her bag on the counter, happy to meet you on the sofa.

“Hi, Aradia!” you cheer.

“Hello, hello!” A kiss on each cheek, smearing red, “Oh, whoops. Well, that can be fixed.”

Vriska doesn’t linger close to Aradia, and you’ve never quite figured out why. It’s sort of hard not to get along with Aradia, she’s so full of life and joyful, even in things that are probably not the most appropriate to find joy in. Your roommate casually lifts a jar of pickled god-knows what out of Aradia’s purse and grimaces in disgust. Right.

“Alright, alright, let’s get you ready.”

“Okay, just don’t glue my eyelids shut this time.”

“Come on, you looked so peaceful,” she sighs dreamily. “All you needed was a nice bed of roses and a good casket spray.”

“Megido, do you ever like…Listen to yourself? Like ever?” Vriska muses, sliding the container of organs back into Aradia’s bag.

Aradia dismisses Vriska, leading you to your room. She spills her makeup bag of brushes and little foundation pots across your floor, sits crosslegged at your feet. She pats the space between her knees, and you flop there, knees together.

“Alright, so, what’s the look you’re going for? Dignified? Restful? Innocent?”

“I was thinking ‘sexy,’ or maybe ‘not dead,’ but you know better than me.”

She bops her powder brush over your nose, grinning in her twinkling, irresistible way.

“I’m teasing. You know, for everything else, I’m kind of surprised you don’t like doing this yourself?”

“It just washes off,” you shrug.

“I suppose. And the gills would be hard to paint around.”

She’s always had a flair with hyperbole. Just another of her charms, you suppose. You steer her away from the red lipstick, at least, but trust her with the rest.

“So, are you excited?” she asks, thumbing a deeper blush on your cheeks.

“Well, sure! I mean. It’s been a while since I’ve had time to go socialize. Lots of jobs to do!”

This pleases Aradia immensely in some way you can't parse. Something in your turn of phrase perhaps? Aradia's always been an enigma. 

“Alright, but on a scale of one to twelve, how excited are you, Feferi?”

You’re sure she’s getting at something. You’ll take the bait.

“Really, really EXCITED!”

“That’s the spirit!” She claps her hands happily. “Now, close your eyes. Time for your eyelashes.”

“Don’t glue them together!”

“Gosh, you glue someone’s eyelids closed unintentionally one time…”

* * *

 

Wow, fucking hell, why are you so fucking nervous?

Sollux is slouching at your elbow like a depressed ramen noodle, but even he has a smile on his face. You’re doing something nice with your girlfriend, and all of your friends. Maybe Sollux just psyched you out with all of his “sinking feeling” bullshit.

You don’t think Gamzee will come tonight. He never does. You hope he doesn’t.

What kind of friend does that make you that you don’t even want him to come to your own damn party?

The bag of booze swings between you and Sollux, supported by both your hands. You have the three gentlemen. Jack Daniels, Sam Adams, and Jim Beam. Shit, you are going to end up trashed, aren’t you. Nepeta answers the door before you finish turning the key.

“Did you get the stuff?”

“I got the stuff.” You offer the booze.

She laughs in a childish, bright way that really should not be associated with alcoholic beverages, and pulls you inside with far more strength than should be allotted to a body so small.

“Hi Solsprinkles,” she grins at Sollux, and despite himself he smiles back to her.

You mean, how can anyone not smile at Nepeta? She’s about ten pounds of cheerful in a three pound sack and a cloud of dark hair, a flashing white smile against chocolate skin and god, how did you ever not like her? Even her little tail clipped onto her jeans is impossibly endearing now. No sooner does this warm thought cross your mind than she thrusts the heavy bottles to your chest.

“Karkitten,” she says, “Equius is here already, so make with the games and smalltalk. I’ve got some badonkadonk to prepare.”

Oh, god, Nepeta, why do you even talk about your badonkadonk with Sollux standing right there grinning his patented Captor Shit-Eating Grin™ at you. And, Christ, Equius is here.

You don’t begrudge Nepeta having her own friends, goodness no. Especially her oldest, most loyal friend. When you met her he had all but stretched you across the rack with his stare. When you moved in together, he near crushed your clavicle as he squeezed your shoulder, leaned over to whisper, Break Nepeta’s heart, and I will break your legs.

Now he sits stone still on the sofa, drinking tea out of the daintiest teacup in your cabinet like a docile mountain. He’s even got his pinky out. What the fuck is your life. His hair is pin-straight, pale as straw and his skin gleaming with…you really don’t want to know, and you really shouldn’t stare at his pectorals, rippling under his shirt with his breathing and, god, can you just not?

At least Sollux sees fit to help Nepeta with her hat. Snuggling a kitty-ear beanie over the fluff of her hair is sort of a two-person job, and he’s tall enough to oversee the process. She turns, letting him survey said rump. He frames her back jeans pockets with the crooks of his fingers, sizing them up.

“Beep beep, NP booty status, backing up.”

Nepeta rewards him with a fond punch in the gut. She’s perfect.

Before you can muster up the balls to go sit next to the Everest of a man sitting on your sofa and talk about the weather, there’s the politest knock in the whole world. You don’t even need to peer in the peephole.

“What’s the password?”

“Uh,” the voice stammers, “you’re an asshole, maybe.”

“Tavros!” Nepeta cheers, pausing her wrestling match with Sollux to bound to the door for you, yank it open.

He’s not as towering as Sollux, but he’s still tall as a fucking oak and built like one. God, you’re sure one of his arms is probably as big around as your head. You and Sollux exchange looks. At least he’s fucking skinny. You’re more like a roly-poly doughboy. Hoo fucking hoo.

Tavros bends to hug Nepeta with one arm, the other balancing a casserole of—

Oh, shit, he brought home cooking. All is forgiven. You are pretty sure you dreamed about his fajitas last time. You relieve him of it, escaping to the kitchen with Sollux to maim the dish before anyone else gets their grubby hands on it.

“Wait, Pokewalker!” Nepeta digs in her pocket, pulling out the toy.

With both hands free, Tavros can dig in his baggy douchebag cargo shorts and fish out his matching device. They stand there like complete idiots while their imaginary baby animal friends do the chacha or whatever the fuck it is they do.

“I’ve had it on when I’ve been working with the elliptical,” he declared. “You have no idea how many points it got!”

He is maybe the only person that makes working out and physical therapy sound that fucking nerdy. Nepeta giggles, leads him fully inside.

“Geez, I just put mine on my cat. Don’t worry, Tavros! Pounce is in our bedroom tonight. And we even waxed all the furniture with tape first!”

Fuck yes you did. It took all goddamn day, and the enormous white puffball just kept jumping back on the chair you just finished. What exactly is the purpose of this animal other than keeping your girlfriend happy?

Well, she’s soft, too.

…Pounce is soft, not…Ugh, fuck.

Tavros and Equius exchange the most awkward handshake in all of mankind. Nepeta obliviously sets up the bar, drags out the dreaded Apples to Apples box. At least you convinced her to play Cards Against Humanity this time.

You can hear the next wave coming up the stairs, singing joyfully. Oh, god. They pregamed. John knows the door’s open. By the time the singing meets critical mass, he swings the door open, attempting to squeeze through with his devilbitch stuck to his hip.

“Hi, Karkat!” He chirrups, big fucking idiot face spread open in a grin.

His blue eyes are enormous and he’s giddy as a Chihuahua. Dammit. Vriska’s holding onto his arm, glasses lopsided and eyeshadow and glitter smeared over her eyelids like a very nerdy Ke$ha. Great. Fucking golden.

The best thing to do is just stand back and let them pile inside, stumbling all over their chuck tailors. God, their shoes match. You’re gonna puke.

“Heeeeeeeey!” Vriska announces herself, at least, “Oh my god, Tavros! It’s been forever!”

All the color sort of drains from Tavros’ face, and he shifts to sit on the other side of Equius.

“Yeah. Sure has.”

Oh, goody! Insecurities and nasty pasts to boot. This party will be off the hook. Sollux is already eyeing the booze as a means of escape.

A little face peers over Vriska’s shoulder, sweet and curious. Oh, you’ve not met her. She’s got enough hair to populate two wig shops and beautiful, dark eyes that make her look a bit like a doe. Or they would, if her glasses didn’t magnify them. Then she looks more like a fish. A really adorable fish.

“Vriska, how the fuck did you get such a cute roommate?”

“Hello,” she says brightly, “I’m Feferi.”

“Uh, yeah, come in.”

She presses past you like the world’s most precious steamroller. You’re pretty sure by the end of the night Nepeta is going to try to either feed her to Pounce or cram her in her pocket.

Already the party has divided into camps. Boys and girls. Aw, shit, this is going to get like an 8th Grade Social. With booze. Wonderful. Vriska fields the fence between the two, as she always does. She’s already getting her shoes all over your coffee table.

Sollux has appropriately plastered himself up against the back wall and is absorbed in his phone. You suspect he’s tweeting, “ _help plea2e party ii2 lame 2au2agefe2t_ ” or something. Equius is silently shitting a cathedral at being around so many people, even with Nepeta to act as a wingman.

Feferi, apparently either lives in a state of perpetual tipsiness or she’s naturally that bubbly. It’s only twenty minutes in and her cheeks are bright pink, and she can’t help giggling all over the damn room.

Oh, oh god. She’s crossing the divide. Vriska elbows John hard enough in the gut to make him spit his ShockTop. Feferi weaves through the crossed legs like a dolphin through hoops, and ends up standing before the last person in the room you thought she’d be magnetized to. Then again, it’s fucking Sollux. You’re beginning to wonder if the honey he eats has pheremones.

The last guest slides her way in without you noticing, as if she’d been there all along. You almost don’t perceive her at all. When you turn to the shape in your peripherals, her appearance all but assaults every sense in your body.

She wears red, her skin like coal ashes, burnt gold horns spiraling out of her head. A set of scarlet gossamer wings fold and unfold on her back. Her eyes flicker like candlelight, smile bright and knowing. She is young, improbable- a monster.

And so are you.

You are like her. Your hands are the color of slate, you feel the phantom horns atop your head, nubby as they are. Your nails are sharp against your scalp; You have claws again. It crashes back to you, makes your legs wobble, your vision swim.

Aradia steadies you with both hands, and leads you out of the apartment.


End file.
